


To Sir With Love

by thisismyshameaccount



Category: Actor RPF, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Light Dom/sub, RPF, Roleplay, Romance, fanfiction magic right, he's not married in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-02
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2019-01-08 04:54:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12247401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisismyshameaccount/pseuds/thisismyshameaccount
Summary: He was a marvel to you: a baroque pearl, magnificent and incomparable.





	To Sir With Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my heathens. You know who you are. It's the most trashy and self-indulgent thing I've ever written and I still can't believe I'm posting it. 
> 
> To all, please observe the tags and decide if this is something you wish to continue reading.

* * *

 

 

Mr. Serkis. It was always Mr. Serkis. On day one he'd told you, ever so graciously, to call him Andy, and though he became that in your head you'd been so shy you never made the shift out loud. By the time you were comfortable with him it had just... stuck.

He had two phones, work and private. As his personal assistant, perhaps seventy percent of the time the former was in your possession. You made and took appointments, coordinated with his agent, responded to emails, managed his schedule with ruthless efficiency, and fielded dozens upon dozens of calls. "Mr. Serkis is busy that day, can I suggest a meeting on the morning of the twenty-ninth?" "Mr. Serkis isn't taking on any new projects right now but I'll pass the message along." "Mr. Serkis has been waiting for your call, can you hold please?"

Mr Serkis. Mr. Serkis. From 8am-4pm, and often off-hours and weekends depending on his workload.

But at some point, Mr. Serkis became sir.

You couldn't nail down exactly when that started. You think at the beginning, which was fitting. You'd been as anxious as a rabbit, deeply conscious of your good fortune to get this position and terrified of bungling it or disappointing him in some way. Despite Andy's easy kindness he'd awed and intimidated you. It was not just his stellar professional reputation or matchless work ethic but his energy, the quiet magnetism of his presence, the fearless and compelling physicality that filled whatever space he was in.

You were drawn like a moth to a flame, enthralled and eager to please.

All this only heightened your horror when you stumbled into your first serious mistake. You couldn't recall what it was now – it was bad, but not as drastic as it seemed at the time – but you'd been a deer in the headlights as you'd explained the situation and finished by stammering, “I apologize, sir.”

He'd drawn very close. Too close, for employer and employee. He'd given you this _look,_ overwhelming and undefinable – then a reassuring half-smile had touched his lips, and he'd chucked you under the chin and said, “You don't need to call me that.”

A nervous giggle of relief burst out of you, and the tension was broken.

Somehow it morphed almost into an inside joke. You'd respond to Andy's question or request – “uh-huh, yeah, can-do” – distracted and scribbling away in your planner, then lift your head to see an an expectantly raised brow and a tell-tale tug at the corner of his mouth. You'd blush and roll your eyes and correct yourself, with an dramatic, “yes, _sir._ ”

On occasion, when he was elbows deep in a project or working against a deadline, you handled his personal errands as well: travel arrangements, groceries, dry cleaning. It was a special thrill, being the one to fetch his mail and hang his flawlessly crisp dress shirts and bespoke suits. He was more relaxed at work but you learned he favored conservative colors for his formal wear, dark wash jeans and muted ties and blazers in black or navy. You'd once polished his brogues for a premiere – he'd rushed in late from the studio, changed clothes, and rocketed out again what seemed like half a minute later – and when you saw the red carpet photos on Getty the next morning you could still feel the glossy, buttery leather under your hands.

And in that instant, curled in bed on your laptop, an inkling began to dawn of just how bad you had it.

 

* * *

 

You were skirting the edge of the soundstage when you hear “hang on, let me get my assistant,” in that distinctive voice, and before he even called your name you turned.

“Can I borrow you?” Andy asked, striding up with a jumble of equipment draped over one arm.

“You can keep me,” you joked. For half a second you thought that was too far, too brazen – but he took it in the spirit of jest it was meant and grinned, gesturing you to the center of the vast room.

“The stand-in hasn't shown and you're the shortest person here,” he explained. He let fly with an incomprehensible jumble of techno-jargon, something about calibration and height parameters and testing a new rig, and even though you were lost two sentences in you nodded and followed him to a bit of tape on the floor. You knew you had only to ask and he'd readily simplify his explanation, but you didn't really need to know and he seemed rushed so you merely extended your arms to cradle the bundle of wires.

“All you have to do is hold it,” he assured you. “It's only a preliminary check so you don't even have to put it on. Just hang onto these markers – ” pressing them into your hands, running nimble fingers under your elbows to position you just so – “and stay as still as you can, we'll be done before you know it.”

Andy disappeared behind the monitors and you stood motionless, blinking into the wide, shining eye of the primary camera.

You'd once overheard him say something about how you could look into someone's eyes and see their honesty. He'd been talking about acting, of course: but as you stood doing nothing at all you still felt stripped, as if the camera offered him a window into the churning of your fallible heart. There were half a dozen others present, busy with gear or peering at the screens with Andy, but they might as well have been set dressing.

Whether a result of his chosen career or an innate facet of his personality, you'd found he was rather talented at reading people. What did he see now, even as you schooled your features into careful neutrality? Did he suspect? Did he realize the fathomless depths to which his assistant had fallen for him?

How predictable it was. Even you had wound yourself into mental gymnastics denying it. You'd clung so hard to the goal of being professional, and appropriate, and mature, and been utterly unable to stop yourself. Did anyone know, when you said you loved your job, how truly you meant it? Loved making his life run smoothly, catching riveting glimpses of him doing what he did best in the studio, listening to the timbre of his voice as he thought out loud; loved even your mind-numbing commute, since you knew he would be at the end of it?

“That's all,” he said, jogging back to you. He was right, it had taken only seconds. “Thank you, you're a doll. Here, I'll take that, and that – ”

You smiled, and fled.

Lord knows you could never, ever let him catch on.

 

* * *

 

It was late on a Friday. A producer across the city had paperwork that required his signature before midnight, but Andy was still occupied with the dailies and asked you to pick up the documents and meet him at his flat. The train was delayed, and when you'd squeezed out of the crowded compartment and switched to a cab the traffic stalled, and by the time you arrived it was past eleven and you still needed to make the return journey with the signed papers.

You barreled through his unlocked front door and into his living room just as he came out of his kitchen and you stopped not-quite-short enough, slamming into him and sloshing his glass of red wine all over the rug.

“Oh my God,” you blurted, numbly discarding the folder on the counter as you stared at the spreading stain. “I can't believe I did that, I'm so clumsy, I just thought I wouldn't get here and back on time – ”

Andy set the dripping glass in the sink and took your shoulders, steadying you.

“Slow down,” he encouraged. You sighed, shaking your head in dismay. His right thumb made distracting circles on the end of your collarbone. “It's not the end of the world. We'll get a towel and some peroxide, watch, it's like magic.”

“Still, I'm so sorry, sir.” Your cheeks burned with embarrassment. His eyes were brilliant blue, gleaming with that indefinable something again.

“Love, you know you don't _really_ have to call me that.”

“Sorry, sir,” you whispered. He was so close his shirt brushed yours. “I mean, just plain sorry...”

And then he was kissing you, crowding you against the counter and pinning you with decisive hips. A stunned squeak bubbled up in your throat, only to dissipate as you sank, dizzy and disbelieving, into the possessive certainty of his touch. Aside from a sympathetic side-hug after you'd gotten the flu you'd never shared close contact with him and you were heady with it, no wine needed to be drunk on the shift of his broad shoulders under your needy and tentative fingers, the bittersweet merlot on his tongue as his palms framed your face.

One hand trailed down, dipping in the hollow of your throat before continuing its downward path into the V of your collar.

“This is rather unprofessional,” he murmured, sliding the other hand around to the nape of your neck.

“Yeah,” you breathed.

“Am I taking hopeless advantage of you?” A button popped on your gossamer blouse, then another, then the next. His knuckles grazed the valley between your breasts.

“Maybe.” The word was almost inaudible, and sank your fingers into the lush salt-and-pepper of his curls as he captured your answer with his mouth.

In one deft movement he seated you on the countertop, hands skimming the outside of your thighs as he slotted between them. You tugged at the hem of his shirt, desperate for the first tantalizing slide of skin on skin, long forbidden even in your most private imaginings. You knew his body, knew its compact proportions and how it looked in gray lycra and how he could flex and move and leap for a stunt, but not its _feel_ , not its embrace, not how it might sync with yours.

Your dress trousers offered no stretch and you had to wiggle as he worked them off, panties too, shoes clattering to the floor. He laughed into your mouth at the struggle then kissed you to your depths, fierce and ravenous, setting his teeth oh-so-deliberate on your bottom lip. One hand was gentle on your nape while the other stole a firm handful of your ass, his touch divided between affection and aggression.

You fumbled with his zipper, tracing the thick outline of his arousal beneath the heavy denim. He exhaled long and ragged into your hair, and you'd swear it sounded like your name. Your skin was on fire; you'd never wanted anything more than you wanted Andy in this suspended moment, _needed_ him, had to have him fill your body the way he filled your heart and your thoughts and your days and your dreams –

“Please,” you gasp into the heat of his mouth, yanking his waistband down just enough to reach in and stroke him. His groan tingled across your tongue. He didn't bother suggesting the bedroom and you couldn't possibly care, grinding on the rough front of his jeans as he pulled them lower, his cock hot and impatient against your already-slick entrance.

His slide inside was a slow torment, as if he reveled in your craven desire, in playing you like an instrument. His beard rasped on the sensitive skin of your neck as he sucked at the beating vein, until he was fully, deliciously seated in you. As he began to move he kept you close to him, maintaining friction on your clit, hands spreading across your lower back and teeth nipping at the soft spot between jaw and ear. The flood of sensations was overwhelming and your head lolled to one side, arms gripping his sturdy back to anchor yourself; little whines escaped you with each thrust, uncontrollable and faint, as if they originated from someone else.

On impulse you kissed him again, near frantic for that intimacy and he gave it without reservation, slowing his pace to steady, undulating, delirium-inducing rolls of his hips.

As you cried out your climax into his mouth he held your head still, cupping your face and not so much as flinching at your inadvertent bite of his lip, letting you pulse and shudder around him. You slumped forward onto his chest, and only after your breathing became subdued did he scoop you up just as you were, strong arms under your thighs, and carry to his room.

“But... Mr. Serkis, the papers... ” Your protest was half-hearted, languorous nails dragging over the bristle on the back of his head where his hair was short.

“ – are already late.” He tsks in your ear. "Bad assistant." 

 

* * *

 

The air outside the theatre hummed with voices and camera shutters, handlers organizing clients and fans calling out to their favorites. You stepped aside as Andy greeted colleagues and cast members, not wanting to intrude, but he always drew you back to him as he wound through the throng of people milling about, waiting for their turn to shine before the bank of cameras.

“Come with me,” he'd said three days ago, when you were going over the key events of this week's schedule and named the special advance gala screening of _War_.

“Oh, do you need me?”

“I didn't mean in a professional capacity.”

“No,” you'd blanched, appalled. Since you started seeing each other you'd been discreet, continuing as usual during the day as if nothing had changed. There existed no obstacles to your involvement, but you both thought it better not to blur the boundary between work and play. That lasted about a week before he was hooking his thumbs in your belt loops and stealing kisses in empty corridors. “I couldn't.”

He'd spun a little in his rolling office chair, smiling sphinx-like from behind steepled hands. “I know you want to see it early.”

“Don't use my love for Caesar against me! Not fair.” For half a heartbeat you'd considered, then repeated, “No. No way.”

“Give me a solid reason why not?”

And that was that.

All attention was on him now as he posed solo in front of the media wall. You didn't have to conceal your admiration as you visually traced the unique configuration of his profile and the robust lines of his frame. His midnight blue button-up was cuffed above the sleeves to reveal solid forearms, his jeans ironed by yours truly just hours ago.

(“Who cares if they're a bit wrinkled?” he'd chuckled as you bent over the iron board, tapping a rhythm down your spine and adding, “Isn't that sort of thing fashionable now?” You'd ignored him, squealing as he tickled along your ribs. “You don't have to be my dresser,” he mused. “You're my un-dresser.”)

He turned to you now, inclining his head in invitation.

“You go,” you said. You exaggerated the words so he could read your lips at this distance. You pointed behind the wall. “I'll meet you inside.”

“Nonsense,” he mouthed, and extended his hand to you.

Your gut constricted. Your smile was stiff and nervous; you must be as crimson as the carpet. Your eyes watered at the cascade of camera flashes, blinding as a solar flare as Andy fitted you against his side. A cacophony of shouts and demands to look this way, that way, over here, engulfed you like a wave.

And there was his hand at the small of your back, large and possessive and reassuring, and the rest of it faded away.

 

* * *

 

“I still can't believe Caesar's gone,” you wailed, laughing and sniffling as he ushered you ahead of him into his flat in the wee hours of the morning. Your heels dangled from your fore- and middle finger. “How could you _do_ that? How could you make him suffer? Oh, but it was incredible, the whole thing, he was amazing...”

Your praise was a continual stream as he shut the door and drew you into his arms, standing with his feet apart and his hands linked behind your waist.

“If you keep on like that you'll make me jealous of him,” he teased, mouthing at your earlobe as you cast your shoes aside.

At the gala the champagne had flowed as free as water, or else you wouldn't have asked; and maybe he wouldn't have acquiesced. But his hands were roaming under your dress, and the buttons of his shirt were slipping undone so easily, and the possibility is a violin string singing in the buzz of your brain.

“I want to see you do it,” you whispered, alight with nerves from voicing this aloud and yet breathless with anticipation of his response. “I want you to be him.”

A startled, intrigued grin toyed at the corner of his lips, playful as was his nature; but even still there's the brightness of arousal in his cerulean gaze, a certain set to his jaw. He cocked one brow, tipping your chin up with a bent finger, and you swayed forward, drawn like a comet to a celestial body.

Your hushed words tumbled out like a confession.

“I want you to be Caesar.”

His mouth ghosted over yours, still sweet with Möet, drawing back before you could even really call it a kiss.

“How do we ask?”

Your heart tripped. “Please, sir.”

It was a visible shift in his posture, his chest opening, shoulders broadening – his eyes were hooded now beneath his brow, almost frightening in intensity and never wavering from yours. A frisson raced across your skin. It still blew your mind that you could see it, the raw physicality changing and uncoiling and radiating from him in waves; you almost thought that if you touched him he might sear.

On reflex you reached out but before contact he caught your wrist, his grip closing around the fragile bones finger by finger. You stared back, unnerved, into a heavy-lidded and unblinking gaze.

“Take it off,” he rumbled, and it wasn't Andy's voice anymore.

He released you to allow you to shimmy free of the dress, the little noise of the zipper so ordinary and pedestrian. The fabric rustled innocently to pool at your bare feet. Underwear was divested next and last your strapless bra, your nipples peaking in the cool air as you stood nude and exposed before him.

His gaze over your vulnerable body was proprietary... predatory.

“Touch me,” he said, and you could only obey. You spread your palms over him as if it was the first time, parting the halves of his shirt and slipping it off. He didn't budge, didn't shift to assist you, only watched with narrowed eyes as the shirt fell in a heap. His snug black undershirt stretched taut over his shoulders and biceps and you were captivated, not just by the fundamental shape of his physique but by its concentrated power and restrained energy.

He was soundless as he spun you and pulled you flush against him, your bare ass fitting against the front of his jeans. His hands shaped iron bands on your upper arms and you gulped with tangled anticipation and arousal. His breathing was deeper than normal, slow and purposeful, his chest rising and falling against your back.

Then his hands came up around your neck, thumbs at your nape and fingers splaying under your jaw like a high collar. He was always physical but there was a new weight to his touch, more visceral; adrenaline electrified you as he began to press, subtle and masterful, on each carotid artery. Blood rushed in your ears, vision starting to fuzz; then his grip softened, thumbs sliding into your hairline. His head dipped forward, his exhalation soft against your temple.

Then again the constriction, the pounding of your blood trying to pass his pressing fingers, the swell and the rush behind your eyes; when your knees buckled he caught you with graceful ease, bearing you down the hall towards his room.

He deposited you unceremoniously, face down on the bed, with the gruff command, “Stay still.”

You panted as your brain re-oxygenated, listening to his belt buckle click and his boots thud on the hardwood. The mattress creaked as he moved atop you, caging you with arms and knees. He was not gentle as he grasped your hips, untamed curls tickling as he bowed his head over your back. He was even less gentle as hauled you on all fours and drove into you, bold and relentless, and you whimpered when he bottomed out with a jolt of exquisite pain.

Normally he liked to flirt, to seduce, to tease you with words and hands and tongue and wind you up until you begged but now he set a punishing pace, _fucking_ you, racking you with the savage force of his thrusts.

Without warning he sank his teeth into your shoulder and you cried out at the shock, thrashing, but he corralled you with the pressure of his full weight and your limbs collapsed beneath him. He laced his hands with yours and trapped them on either side of your head, his body subduing you into surrender.

He growled into your hair, human throat resonating with the wildest of sounds, and despite yourself a fresh surge of desire shuddered through you. He slammed into you again, and again, each rough slide in and out spiraling you higher and higher until you were keening and moaning, bucking your hips up into him. Another growl, near-infrasonic, vibrated through him and into you – and abruptly you crashed into orgasm, clutching the duvet and choking out a strangled scream.

Limp and light-headed in your pleasure, still you squirmed instinctively up into him at his own climax. As he throbbed his release inside you his grip on your hands was so hard you thought it might crush the phalanges and tendons into dust, and yet, you thrilled to it. As his breathing stabilized yours was shallow, your lungs compressed by his weight, but you didn't mind it: even liked it. There was a deep, primal eroticism to being so surrounded and overcome by him. You'd never felt so thoroughly sated, and so protected.

With a last sigh he withdrew, and rolled you over; there was Andy again, his eyes intent but familiar, and when he kissed you you'd have happily drowned in it.

 

* * *

 

Later, you sat between his sturdy thighs in the middle of the rumpled bed, legs locked loosely around his waist as he cleaned the purpling indentations of the bite mark. The focused serenity of his expression was near painterly, illuminated on one side by the streetlight filtering through the curtain. Though his hair was chaos, his bearing was utterly self-possessed.

“I'll have to give some thought to how in character that was,” you pondered _sotto voce._

“I think _I_ would know,” he rejoindered with faux solemnity. Your eyes caught, and held; then you stifled a laugh, and a grin split his face, and he shrugged.

“You can share that on the press tour,” you giggled.

“Oh no, that's an exclusive,” he murmured, letting you trace the angle of his jaw from sideburn to beard. He was still a marvel to you, a baroque pearl, magnificent and incomparable. “Strictly off the record.”

“I won't tell a soul, sir,” you swore chastely. He set the antiseptic on the nightstand and settled back against the heap of pillows, bringing you with him. Your ear rested on his chest; the _ba-dum-ba-dum_ was a hymn. “Cross my heart.”

 

 

* * *

 

 


End file.
